


what’s there to be faithful to? (you, darling. it’s always you)

by humanveil



Category: Z Nation (TV)
Genre: Episode: s05e12 At All Cost, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 06:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17136950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: “You’re alright.”





	what’s there to be faithful to? (you, darling. it’s always you)

The back of the truck is mostly empty; nothing but stray items and their own supplies filling the space. It’s filthy, too, but George doesn’t mind as she slides down against the wall, settles on the ground with her knees pulled to her chest, her elbows resting on top and her arms hanging in the space between. Her head drops forward, her eyes shut as she takes a moment to simply breathe.  _Process_. 

It’d been a close escape, but they’d managed. Had snuck to the truck before Estes had caught up; had got far enough away that they couldn’t be followed, not yet. Chaos will catch up with them soon—that George knows for a fact. But for now, there is a relative calmness she has no intentions of wasting. Not when it’s as scarce as it is. 

There’s a rustle, and she looks up to see Warren move toward her. Movements careful; almost tentative, George thinks, and she isn’t sure if she wants to laugh or cry. Doesn’t have the energy for either. 

Warren crouches down beside her, hand flat against the truck’s side to steady herself as they wobble down the road. She reaches out, uses her free hand to trace George’s wounds, her thumb trailing over the black eye, along the cut across her cheekbone, down to where her lip is split. George shuts her eyes under the gentle caress. Leans into it. Allows herself to let out a sigh, the exhale of air shaky. Heavy with everything that’s been done to her. 

“Here,” Warren says, soft and quiet, her hand falling away momentarily. 

George cracks her good eye open to see Warren reach inside her jacket pocket, sees her return with a cluster of tissue paper. Some type of sanitary wipe.

“Swiped it from the lab,” she says by way of explanation, and George manages a small smile in return; a look that says  _thank you._

It’s just the two of them, here. Red drives the truck, Citizen Z back at Altura, unwilling to leave without Kaya safe at his side. She doesn’t mind—she _likes_ Warren’s company. Feels safe in it.

It’s one of the few things she can trust, these days.

George lets her eyes fall shut once more. Doesn’t fight it when Warren reaches back out—doesn’t see a reason to. Her hands are rough, worn after a decade spent in the apocalypse, after a lifetime spent fighting. Her touch is soft, though. Welcomingly gentle. She dabs the tissue along George’s skin, wipes away dirt and blood and sweat and tears until she’s something that resembles clean.

“You’re alright,” Warren says, and it sounds like she’s trying to convince herself more than she’s trying to convince George. Like she can see the facts in front of her but still can’t quite believe it. 

She tucks the wipes back in her pocket but keeps a hand on George’s face, traces the wounds with her fingertips: the pressure feather-light, each action precise. Careful. Overtly aware of the bruises that litter George’s skin.

“You’re alright,” she says again, and George nods, quick and minute, over and over. 

She tilts her head back. Leans into the palm that cups her cheek. Her eyes crack open again, just enough so she can see Warren’s face; can see the concern that taints her features. It makes her chest tight.

“I’m alright,” she repeats, words less than a whisper. It’s not quite the truth.

Warren’s grip tightens in response, only briefly. Her hand nudging George so she falls forward, leans down, rests her head against the curve of Warren’s shoulder. Warren’s hand slides to the nape of her neck, fingers twisting in the short locks of hair as she drops a kiss to the top of George’s head, down to the jut of a cheek bone, to the corner of her mouth: quick and chaste but tender.

She holds her like that and George allows it: revels in it. Feels herself calm in the comfort of Warren’s company, remnants of terror dissipating with every second. The lingering fear giving way to something much lighter. Something warm and soft and uncommonly sweet.

Warren’s breath trails across her skin and George thinks, _maybe I’m not alright_. _Not right now._

But she will be, and maybe that’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> comments & kudos = ♡♡♡
> 
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